


Princess Debut

by Solemini (SoleminiSanction)



Category: Batgirl (Comics), Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Case Fic, Debutante Balls, Families of Choice, Family Feels, Gen, Makeover, Racism, Undercover, fight me dc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 23:05:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18926812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoleminiSanction/pseuds/Solemini
Summary: “They are white. I look bad in white.”“Everyone looks bad in white. But that’s the dress code. It’s 'traditional.'”Something bad is about to go down at Gotham City's most exclusive debutante ball. Luckily, Cassandra Wayne has a standing invitation.





	Princess Debut

**Author's Note:**

> This story blossomed out of a fun brainstorming session with Snow, Shu, strawberryjei, and other lovely people over at the Tim Drake-loving "Capes & Coffee" Discord server. Come join the fun, if you're interested: https://discord.gg/97bajEQ
> 
> And yes, I did name it after an okay™ kiddie rhythm/otome game from the DS era. So sue me.

The Wayne Manor ballroom rarely saw much use outside of formal events, and even then the rules of high society dictated that hosts only make their appearances after guests began to arrive, which almost never happened before nightfall. So seeing the fine chamber empty, dusted and open to the noonday sun was a novelty for all present, so much so that it almost distracted from the reason they’d gathered in the first place.

Almost.

Cassandra scowled at the pristine leather shoes she’d been presented, still in their nest of tissue and cardboard. “They are white.”

“Yes,” said Oracle patiently placing them in her lap. “To match your dress.”

“I look bad in white.”

“Everyone looks bad in white,” said Tim from his seat at her side. “Even Hawk and Dove barely pull it off. But that’s the dress code. It’s _traditional_.”

He stuck a hand into his own new shoe, carefully stretching its laces and black leather. Cass glared at it, the disparity between genders seeming deeply unfair.

Tim raised a sympathetic brow. “I could get Catherine’s heels, if it’d make you feel better.”

Cass lit up. From behind them, Bruce sighed.

“No,” he said firmly. “You need to break in the shoes and practice with both partners at the correct height. Cassandra, just try them on. I promise they’re not as bad as they look.”

She pouted, but did as she’d been told, trading her ballet flats for two-inch heels with a delicate strap around the ankle.

Across from them, Damian huffed and made a last few adjustments to his violin. To his right, Dick perched crossed-legged upon a chaise lounge, looking far too eager for someone who wouldn’t be on the dance floor. Alfred sat on the other side, primly poised in a straight-backed chair as he polished off his afternoon tea.

“Right then,” he announced, crisp as a French matron. “To the floor. Master Tim will lead.”

Tim stood first, offering Cass his hand and a reassuring smile. He was trying to say _Don’t worry, just do as I do,_ but beneath that lay an excited hum. At times, he could be overly humble, but he knew his strengths as well as his weaknesses and secretly reveled in the chance to show off.

It made an amusing comfort as Cass took his offer and allowed him to guide her onto the floor. It took only two steps to regain her balance, yet he still kept hold of her hand, their arms extended at the elbow. On the open floor, he placed his other hand on her shoulder blade — over the muscle but under her arm — and guided hers to his shoulder, extending their yet-clasped partners away from their bodies at just under shoulder height.

Babs settled her wheelchair alongside Dick and started up a metronome app. Alfred counted the beat with his fingers, letting it run a few seconds so they could get a feel before adding, “And a-one and a-two and…”

Damian put bow to string and went straight into the second movement of Strauss’s “Blue Danube.” Tim matched him in perfect time, stepping into what Babs had called a “Viennese Waltz,” though they were supposedly starting at half-tempo. Cass moved with him, missing only a single step before they were perfectly in-synch.

Waltzing, as it turned out, was not unlike fighting. It still depended on reading her opposite number, finding the tell-tale twitch in his body language, and guessing his moves before he did; but, rather than countering them, she now moved in tandem, stepping as he did and swaying to the beat as they circled the room and each other.

Tim seemed different as a dancer, too. He was a competent and confident fighter, of course, yet here on the floor he seemed more at ease. Like he could relax. A natural.

“The things you learn at boarding school,” he said with a chuckle when she raised a questioning eyebrow. He broke their grip to spin her twice and only continued once their hands returned to each other’s backs. “I got this instead of gym for three whole years. Ready to step it up?”

He smirked on the last word. A challenge. Cass squeezed his shoulder and smirked back. _Bring it on._

Tim let his head roll back. “Up tempo, please!”

Barbara pumped up the metronome. Damian scoffed, but sped up to match. Before Cass quite knew what was happening, Tim used their momentum to lift her feet from the floor and spin them into the faster pace.

For a split second, she at last understood how the girls in Steph’s books could call “being swept off your feet” a good thing. Then she caught both her breath and the next step and it all rushed back into focus.

Tim laughed. Not mean, bright. Like he did as Robin. Every touch of his hand murmured, _That’s it, you’re doing great_. _See, you’ve got it!_

Before long, Cass was laughing too. Dancing was _fun_.

From the sidelines, Dick gave an encouraging laugh of his own, accompanied by a brief round of applause. Bruce shifted away from his spot by the wall and cleared his throat loud enough to carry over the music.

“Black Bat, Red Robin. Debrief.”

The laughter dropped. Tim’s grip tightened, his spine straightening to attention even as they continued to spin. Cass did likewise, their steps growing more precise and sharp. The order hadn’t been a scold, but it was a test. They were doing this for the mission, after all.

“The Kane Foundation’s semi-annual Viola Sororia Debutante Ball has been targeted by an extremist cell of the alt-right,” recited Tim. “They’ve made repeated threats through a number of online channels, especially those dedicated to white supremacy.”

“Could be nothing.” Cass’s heels clicked across the hardwood floor. “Can’t risk it.”

Tim nodded. “Oracle’s got bots monitoring the chatter. Nightwing and Robin will be geared up and on-site in case anything happens.”

“Damn straight,” said Dick with a thumb’s up.

Bruce gave an approving nod as the dancing pair swung past him. “Good. And your role?”

“Eyes on the ground. Civilian protection. Identification of co-conspirators among the guests, if there are any.”

“And bait,” added Cass, soft but firm.

Bruce grimaced, though they all knew she was right. As the adopted, mixed-race children of Gotham’s most respected family, Cass and Tim represented everything the terrorists feared. That’s why the Ball had been targeted: in the last few years, they’d made a deliberate effort to extend invitations to families like the Foxes or the heads of various international corporations, anyone who could add a hint of diversity to one of the whitest events in upper-class America.

Naturally, Cassandra Wayne had been on their list since she turned sixteen. She’d declined twice before and would have done so again if not for the threats. Now here she was, fresh off her first-class overnight red-eye with only a few days to learn what the girls at Tim’s boarding schools had been trained for their entire lives.

Their dance came to an end alongside “Blue Danube.” Tim guided Cass out with a final extended turn, keeping hold of her hand long enough for a refined bow and a quick peck to her knuckles. Dick and Babs offered a round of applause while Damian lowered his violin with a scowl.

He tried so hard to project indifference and disgust, but Cass could easily read the steady hum of jealousy beneath his skin. For all he’d been raised as a prince, the League of Assassins would never waste resources on frivolities like dancing. It galled him, no doubt, to see the brother he so often dismissed out-perform him in the realm of polite society.

But, as always, it was Bruce who commanded their attention forthwith. He glanced between Cass and Tim with an expression most people would find harsh, but all present recognized as approval.

“Remember,” he said. “Your first mission is to protect yourselves. Your second is to protect each other. And your third is to protect the innocent, if it comes to it. Is that understood?”

Cass nodded. Tim said, “Yes sir.”

“Good.” Bruce allowed himself a quick smile before stepping back to make way for the expert. “Notes, Alfred?”

“A fine first trial.” The elder gentleman passed his now-empty teacup to Dick, rising and crossing to physically turn Tim and Cass until they were facing each other once more. “But there is always room for improvement. Master Tim, your hand should be placed here. Just a tad lower, that’s it. And Miss Cassandra, if you’ll shift your weight a bit towards me…”

 

* * *

 

  
“I don’t see why this couldn’t be a girls’ night,” grumbled Steph, stuffing a palm-full of popcorn into her mouth. She was perched on Cass’s bed in her pajamas, golden hair pulled back and ready for the colored streaks Harper had promised her.

Tim and Cass sat on the floor, which was scattered with snacks, pillows, and a dozen bottles of fancy make-up in boring colors. Cass likewise wore pajamas and had been told she wasn’t allowed to move, while Tim (in a t-shirt and old jeans) was hyper-focused on touching up her concealer.

“Because Babs was busy and the only time you two wear more than lip-gloss is when you go clubbing,” he said without looking up from the word. “Nice as that can be, those looks are in no way appropriate for the Viola.”

He dabbed at a spot below her ear, his tongue briefly caught between his teeth. Satisfied, he freed the appendage and added, softly, “This will be more delicate than you’re used to, but don’t worry. We’ll show you how to touch up and you’ve got all night to practice.”

“Oooooookaaay,” drawled Harper from her beanbag in the corner. “And just why do you know all this, Boy Wonder?”

Tim shrugged. “The easiest place to speak with my mother was at her vanity.” He steered Cass’s chin left and right before nodding and capping up the concealer. “Plus, who do you think got sent undercover before you three were properly trained?”

Steph snorted into her popcorn. Harper barked a laugh. Tim ignored them both, contemplating their choice of eye-shadow.

“Hm, blue or silver?”

Steph gasped, one hand clasped to her chest. “Blue?? With _her_ eyes, are you nuts? Give it here.”

She slid off the bed, snatched the eye-shadow from Tim and kicked his hip until he slid over. She stole the pillow he’d been sitting on and shuffled in until she was almost in Cass’s lap.

“All this fuss for some stupid fancy dance,” she muttered, putting brush to pallet. “At least prom had nice colors.”

“You never went to prom,” said Tim automatically. “I never went to prom. Harper, did you go to prom?”

“Fuck no, I had work to do.”

“See? So how would you know?”

Steph waved him off with a dismissive shake of the brush. “Some of us _like_ rom-coms. Besides, that’s not the point. Point is, all this ‘Princess Purity’ bullshit is fucking creepy.”

“Oh, it is.” Tim cracked open a can of Zesti. “It’s creepy as heck. But at least the point isn’t to show off your goods for suitors anymore.”

He proceeds to down half the can as Steph and Harper lock gazes over Cass’s head. They roll their eyes — a mix of _ugh, boys_ and _fucking rich people_ — before Steph says, “Close them gorgeous orbs, girl, and let me get at your lids.”

Cass does as she’s told and leans in, enjoying the gentle contact of the brush across her eyes. She hears Tim come up for air, then Harper asking, “So what do you actually do at this thing?”

“Same as any gala,” says Tim with the tell-tale rustle of a shrug. “Dance a bit, pretend to care what strangers think, smile for the camera and eat absurdly fancy food.” His voice takes on a slight nasal quality; he must be wrinkling his nose. “Seriously. They sent a menu in advance. I think Alfred wanted to burn it. Desert features sakuramochi, wrapped in _gold leaf_.”

Cass scowled. Steph and Harper made noises of disgust. Alfred spared no expense on their family’s nutrition, but neither he nor Bruce would dream of wasting funds on such a pointless, extravagant display. That money was bettered served at the Wayne Foundation, its various charities, or their night jobs.

The rustle of a candy bag came from somewhere in Harper’s direction. As Steph’s brush left her eyes, Cass tilted her head all the way back and leaned on her arms until it dangled upside-down with her mouth open. “Candy me.”

Harper obliged, lobbing a peppermint bon-bon square into Cassandra’s mouth. It was still wrapped. Cass’s tongue made quick work of that, folding the cellophane into a neat square, which she blew out from between her teeth without ever touching her lips.

When she opened her eyes, both Tim and Steph were staring. The latter bit her lip to hold in giggles, while the former had a distinct, dark blush dusting his cheeks.

He cleared his throat. “Don’t, ah. Don’t do anything like that at the party, okay? Just to be safe.”

“Okay,” said Cass, as if she couldn’t read exactly what he’d been thinking. She batted her eyelashes until he squirmed, than smirked. Tim could be so easily flustered. It was adorable.

Steph snapped the eyeshadow shut and armed Tim with an eyeliner pencil before scooted out of the way. “And what’s your role in all this, ex-Boyfriend Wonder?”

“I’m just along to look pretty and carry her stuff,” said Tim as he took her place. “I’m basically a sarcastic handbag.”

The other girls cracked up as he leaned in, adding a faint gray line beneath Cass’s perfectly-dusted eye. He met her gaze as he did, pales eyes and gentle fingers asking what his voice would not:

_You’ll be the center of attention out there. Will you be okay?_

Cass answered with the slightest shrug. She didn’t know if she would be. But it was for the Mission, so she could only try.

 

* * *

 

  
Thankfully, the final fitting for Cassandra's new dress required no audience, only Alfred, a footstool and a sewing kit in Bruce's walk-in closet. As Cassandra poised between three angled, full-length mirrors, she couldn't help the slight scowl that marred her reflections.  
  
She supposed the dress was not as bad as it could be. It came straight from one of her favorite designers -- a small, local rising star out of Gotham's Chinatown -- and was tastefully modeled on a modern qipao, albeit one with a sheer, partial-lace shirt wide enough to lift. Still, Cass hated it.  
  
Or rather, she hated the way it looked _on her_ , with its long sleeves and opaque tights covering her myriad scars. It looked stiff and fake, like a tacky, too-thick layer of nail polish. Her fingers itched in the stupid white gloves and every glimpse of its unrelenting purity made her skin crawl.  
  
Who were they kidding? She would never fool anyone. Every snotty rich bastard at this stupid ball would take one look at her among the delicate powder-pink blondes and know that she was no flower. She was a gnarled tree long ago hewn into a weapon, and no amount of practice or lace could hide that.  
  
She was so caught up in her own mind that she didn't even see Alfred until his hand touched her shoulder, making her jump. "A penny for your thoughts, Miss Cassandra?"  
  
She blinked at him, then ducked her head and avoided looking at her own reflection. Alfred, bless him, seemed to understand and offered a palm to help her down from the stool.  
  
"The final adjustments are complete, my dear. All that remains now is the finishing touch, which -- unless I miss my guess -- will be much more to your preference. Come along."  
  
He led her out of the closet and into the small "powder room" adjacent to the master bath, where Bruce's mother had once tended to her personal dress. Though everything precious had been removed long ago, an old vanity set and a couch remained for the comfort of Bruce's partners.  
  
Alfred sat her down before the mirror and produced, from beneath the couch, a sleek brown briefcase, which he set on the vanity counter. Opening it revealed an array of silver accessories cushioned in black foam, from bracelets and hair decorations to…were those knives?  
  
Cass perked up, her fingers twitching to reach for the gorgeous, finely-crafted weapons. But Alfred's first selection was, instead, a pair of silver hair-sticks, one of which he flipped around to hand her butt-first. Cassandra took it and was pleasantly surprised to find its point sharpened to potential lethality, perfectly weighted for use as a throwing weapon as well in close combat.  
  
Alfred used the pair to expertly twist her hair into a high bun, then sorted through each accessory in turn until she was armed from tip to tail. The knives went into hidden pockets throughout her dress. The bracelets could double as throwing weapons. The pin at her lapel hid a communicator and the garter, a single-use emergency zip-line.  
  
With each, Cass remembered who she was: a weapon, to be sure, but one as capable of elegance and grace as she'd ever been of death. As Alfred slid the final piece -- a barrette that could, in a pinch, be broken down into lock picks -- into place, he turned her back to the vanity mirror with a flourish that was barely a breath short of a ta-da.  
  
The Cassandra in that mirror was beautiful, had always been beautiful. But more importantly, she was at least. She looked like herself. Even in white.  
  
"Much better," said Alfred warmly, catching her reflection's gaze with a soft smile. "Whatever uncouth opinions you encounter, Miss Cassandra, know that this is how all those within this house have always and will always see you."  
  
Affection swelled in her breast, smothering what few words she could muster. Instead, she twisted in the chair and threw her arms around Alfred's waist, hugging him as tight as she could.  
  
She could do this. She was ready.

 

* * *

 

  
The night before, Cass was going over last-minute strategies in her room when Bruce appeared in the open door. He knocked on the frame and cleared his throat. "May I come in?"  
  
Cass nodded, setting her laptop aside and sitting at cross-legged attention. Bruce sat beside her, the mattress dipping heavily in his favor. He placed a lacquer box on the quilt between them.  
  
"I have something for you," he said, opening the lid to reveal a velvet-lined interior with compartments full of jewels. Intrigued, Cass leaned in for a better look as Bruce carefully selected two small pieces and held them out for her to see.  
  
They were a lovely set of pearl-and-diamond earrings, which would perfectly match her accessories for the Ball.  
  
"These belonged to my mother."  
  
Cass startled, blinking at him. Bruce's soft smile radiated nostalgia with a hint of sorrow, but not a trace of artifice or calculation. This wasn't about the Mission. It was about her.  
  
"Mother wore these to her debut at the Viola Sororia over fifty years ago. She was escorted by a young man whose nose my father later broke."  
  
She cocked her head to one side. He chuckled.  
  
"I'm not sure. They never saw fit to tell me." His smile slipped and his shoulders lowered, amusement softening to consideration. "Mother always said no child of hers would be paraded at that ball until it learned to change with the times. I doubt she'd approve of it now but…it is getting better.  
  
"Either way, she would want you to have these. May I?"  
  
Cass nodded, swelling with all his words didn't say. Bruce set the box aside, brushed back her hair, and carefully replaced her plastic sunflower studs with the delicate, dangling pair. Her fingers lingered against her jawline. She let him turn her head one way, then the other. Affection shimmered in his eyes.  
  
"They suit you."  
  
She preened for him with unabashed pride. Bruce chuckled again and stroked her hair.  
  
"Get some sleep now. You'll need all you can get for tomorrow."  
  
As he kissed her brow, Cass savored the soft promise of her true father's love. Then he stood, lingering only a moment to stroke her hair before retrieving the jewelry box. "Good night, princess."  
  
_Good night, Daddy,_ whispered her heart. Though he said nothing more, she knew that he'd heard.


End file.
